


A conversation with...

by Nyxwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:18:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxwrites/pseuds/Nyxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has been gone for two years and now Greg has to have the fateful conversation that may bring them back together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A conversation with...

Greg Lestrade sat on one side of the wooden desk, a heavy oak affair, dark stained. The seat he sat in was made of the same wood. A cushion, red as if colored by spilled wine, attempted to make the seat more comfortable. The room’s walls were darkened, as was the floor. The temperature was pleasantly warmed, but uncomfortably unchanging. There was another figure in the room seated on the opposite side of the desk, but shadows cast by the only source of light - a small desk lamp - hid the identity of the other person.

“I assume you know why you are here,” the other person spoke in a voice soft enough to be a whisper. Greg nodded, gripping the arms of the chair, but otherwise appearing calm. “Good,” the voice continued, “then we may continue.”

“Where would you like to begin?” Greg asked. His voice wasn’t shaking but he could feel the cool breath of fear in his bones. 

“Let’s begin with …” a tongue ticked over teeth, a teasing clicking sound. “The wife.”

“Her?” Greg made a startled noise. He hadn’t expected this. “Why her?”

“I could ask about specific things but you’ll give more information when you’re confronted by actual feelings. Love and hate happen to be powerful ones.”

“I never hated her.” Greg attempted.

The voice made a ticking sound. “Lying. Very bad Gregory, very bad.”

Greg shook his head. “Alright. At first I fancied her, and then I loved her once I knew she fancied me. When she cheated the first time, I thought I’d screwed up. Work occupied more of my life then I cared to admit. I thought I was turning into another husband at the Yard whose job forced the marriage apart. I came back to her then, I made extra time. Nearly lost my job one week I spent so much time at home. Then a big case came, and I was pulled away again. She cheated while I was gone. I pretended not to know, but how could I not, with Sherlock around. She cheated the moment I walked away. Just because I wasn’t there, because I wasn’t watching her. She didn’t love me anymore.”

Greg heard his voice break as he finally admitted it. “She only stopped cheating when I spent more time with her because she couldn’t get away with it. She would have tipped me off. I tried to fix our marriage. She ended it on a vacation I planned to try to give us time together. I was suntanned from the beach, she was snogging the surf instructor. That’s it. I was a sucker, she played me.”

The voice let a triumphant chuckle. “Good boy,” it hissed now, excited by the admittance. “One down. Let’s go to the second. Sherlock Holmes, his death,” the voice let out a sarcastic chuckle at the word death, “and eventual return.”

“I didn’t hate Sherlock for that. I was mad, sad, lost, but I didn’t hate him.” Greg rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, to clear imaginary sweat. 

“No, you did not,” the voice blew out, “but who could you talk to about Sherlock? John and Mrs. Hudson were a mess, your unit was elated, ‘He’ and Ms. Hooper knew the truth. You needed someone to talk to, but there was no one. So talk.”

“Sherlock died, and I lost a friend. I will admit it, I lost a friend. I also lost a valuable asset. I had James Moriarty. I always thought his dead body as Sherlock’s final gift to me, and to each one of his victims whose families were asking me for answers. It is a horrible way to think of someone who is dead, even a creep like Moriarty, but it helped. It was the only comfort I had, maybe besides the fact that I never had to deal with Sherlock again. I went through the five stages of grief and all that other psychological what’s it. I think sometimes I only moved on because I could hear Sherlock’s voice in the back of my head saying ‘Sentiment is useless Lestrade, where’s the next case?’ I suppose, in retrospect, that isn’t exactly moving on.” 

The voice chuckled, humourlessly, as if attempting to say Greg’s analysis was funny, but unwilling to pass judgement. “His return then?”

“I knew by then. By the time he officially announced himself as alive, came back, I’d been told by…” Greg paused and looked down, chocked suddenly, “you know who. I was angry at first, but angry I hadn’t been trusted, been told. I wasn’t surprised, heck, it’s Sherlock. If he was actually dead, then I’m the Queen. I met him two weeks before John knew he was alive and I punched him the face. It was satisfying.” Greg grinned at the memory, the red mark on Sherlock’s cheek had last nearly the full two weeks, only to be replaced by a few bruises from John’s fist. “We moved on after that. Never really talked about it, not that Sherlock ever would want to talk, but we all moved on. It was a betrayal like none other, I made My… I made him promise he would never do the same, ever.” 

Teeth clicked as the owner of the voice shook his head, nodding possibly. “Good, Gregory Good. On to the third topic…”

Greg interrupted, “It’s Mycroft isn’t it? The third topic.”

The voice chuckled again. “Yes, that is the first time you’ve said his name so far. Love is by far more powerful than hate, isn’t it Detective Inspector.” It wasn’t a question.

Greg wrung his hands, and swallowed heavily. “What do I say about Mycroft Holmes?”

“Whatever you want,” the voice prompted.

“That question was rhetorical,” Greg replied dryly. “What does anyone say about Mycroft Holmes? He was the most marvelous man I ever knew. We were together for forty years roughly, and he never failed to surprise me. Even when he finally left, even now, it never fails to amaze me how much it can hurt to lose someone you love so much; someone who has become such a part of your life that them gone is like London without rain. Something is so profoundly wrong, it gnaws at you constantly. Mycroft was a Holmes; he should have outlived me, and instead I lived without him. Our house still smells like him and all I can hear is him apologizing for leaving me. I did my best to keep going. Hired a caretaker type who cleaned, made sure I ate, and stayed by my side when I had bad days, but she wasn’t Mycroft. My health wasn’t great when Mycroft died, and it went worst after he left.”

The voice let out a whispery sigh, “So attached, so humannnnnn,” it drawled. 

“What do you want?” Greg sounded angry now. “We fell in together when Moriarty popped up. He helped me out, and I helped him. Next thing I knew, I was divorced, my return to the dating scene wasn’t working, and Sherlock was dead. Besides new murder cases and bills, there was one constant in my life. The dashing, inspiring and interesting Mycroft Holmes. I asked him out, and he accepted. It didn’t take me long to realize I’d fallen madly in love with the man, probably why my other attempts to date hadn’t worked out,” Greg shrugged. “I compared them all to Mycroft. Our relationship was nothing short of strange. Even when Sherlock returned, he commented it made no sense to him. We made it work though, moved in together so we’d end up seeing each other more often despite our crazy schedules. After we retired, Mycroft later than I, we moved out of town, into a small place on the countryside. It was like the honeymoon we never had. I guess sometimes you have to try a couple times to find the right person. My first marriage was a mess, but Mycroft and I made everything work. Even fights got sorted quickly….”

The voice interrupted as the form that it belonged to stood with a hollow clatter following him. “Oh, do not ramble, I have heard enough.” There was a series of clicks. “Human proclivities towards love are so very entertaining but I’ve heard it far too many times.” The voice sounded tired, world weary. “We are finished now.”

Greg stood as well, placing his hands on the edge of the desk and leaning closer to the voice. “What now?” he asked. 

“Now you get to see Mycroft again. You seem to have made the same choice he did. Afterlife together with the one you love, such a romantic notion. You would be surprised how few end up making that choice.”

“Well, maybe they didn’t meet the right person,” Greg had pulled his hands off the desk and was rolling on the balls of his feet in anticipation. His gaze was drawn to the door, the only exit or entrance of any sort in the room. It opened with a cliché burst of white light.

“Mycroft is beyond there. Enjoy, Gregory Lestrade, the afterlife will be good to you,” Death clacked again, his fleshless jaws smacking together. 

Greg barely stopped long enough to thank the creature of legends. Two years without Mycroft, and now he was so close. Greg ran until he was embraced by the familiar form, smell, being. Home again, in death, but home again either way.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to gdlovely on tumblr for editing. I don’t own any of the characters. This specific fanfiction was inspired by the quote from Criminal Minds 1x04 - “Actually, conversations between Death and his victims is a fairly popular literation artistic theme throughout the Renaissance,”- said by Dr. Spencer Reid. Thanks for reading ~Nyx


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